


Not Pretty

by onionstories



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Invader Zim Week, Lolita Fashion, body image issues, izweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onionstories/pseuds/onionstories
Summary: It was time, time to do the one thing he bought this entire ensemble to do, time to put that damn dress on— and it was just a piece of fabric, and he was Zim! And Zim fears nothing, especially not pieces of fabric impulse bought off the internet.Zim experiments with Earth fashion.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	Not Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> you give me something like "zim tries on a pretty dress" and i make it sad because if i have to be sad you have to be sad

It had taken two hundred and fifty-four Earth monies, and laying it out, Zim already felt like it was a waste.

He’d found it online, after some research for another amazing plan to conquer the dirt-ball had veered off into a rabbit hole of completely unrelated research, and suddenly Zim had found himself starting out by looking up how dependant humans are on power, and how devastating it would be if something were to get  _ rid  _ of said power, and ending up looking at human fashion trends. 

It had started innocently enough; Zim had noticed in passing that a certain article of Earth clothing bore a striking resemblance to Irken formalwear— the  _ kimono,  _ to be exact _ —  _ and from there he’d just gone deeper and deeper, fascinated by the concept of wearing things just to wear things, with no rank or title affixed to them. 

And then he’d bought something. He’d used his limited supply of Earth monies to  _ buy something,  _ and since the cursed thing had to travel from Japan to Ohio, it took long enough that, by the time it arrived, Zim had already thoroughly regretted his decision. 

But it had taken two hundred and fifty-four Earth monies, and with that kind of price tag, Zim  _ had  _ to see it through. 

The dress was a dark blue, golden constellations dotting it, with a bow around the middle and little embellishments near the collar. What little sleeves it had were made of such sheer fabric that they offered no extra protection; a useless little addition Zim was fascinated by— how fascinating it was that things had been added to this dress for no reason other than to look nice. With it, there were a pair of tights, in the same dark blue as the dress, with golden constellations to match, and a second pair of tights, outfitted into custom-made gloves for Zim’s unique hands. Then there were the shoes, matching everything as per expected, a headdress since the Internet said that it was part of  _ the rules  _ to have one, and decorative, lacy wrist cuffs to hide how the makeshift gloves sat awkwardly on Zim’s small wrists. Finally, a thing called a  _ petty-coat,  _ to give the dress that  _ poof  _ that Zim had seen in the pictures.

Zim had taken the box it’d arrived in like it was a top-secret Irken superweapon, and immediately retreated to the depths of his underground base, far away from any prying eyes, with a double-fortified door and no possible way for anything to get in or out without his command. He stood, exposed, having only just now gathered the nerve to take his Invader’s uniform off. He shivered, despite the lack of cool air— he’d always hated being naked, even in the short time it took to change into his night clothes. 

Which made him figure that it was best to get this over with, already. 

First were the gloves— Zim had always hated being without them, ever since he’d gotten his first pair. Sometimes, he’d even sleep with them on. The fabric felt different from the military-grade fabric his usual gloves were made out of; thin yet nigh-impenetrable, a familiar sensation on his hands, something to block the often overwhelming sensation of touch. These ones were… soft. And different. And they caught on his claws, just a little. Enough to make Zim worry they’d rip. He immediately took them off, put his normal gloves on, then put the new ones on top, tucking the excess into his Invader gloves— thankfully, they were about the same length. 

Next, the leggings— Zim was no Tailor, but he  _ did  _ have experience in sewing, tucking the sides of his old uniforms here and there in order to make them fit him just right, without it engulfing him, making him look like a smeet playing dress-up. He’d been able to get the dress custom-fit, but the leggings were one size only, leading him to quickly brush up on his old skills and get to work, matching their size with his usual pair. He slowly slid them on, carefully making sure his claws didn’t catch on them, feeling a small sense of pride bubble up in him as they hugged his form perfectly— and why wouldn’t they? He was  _ Zim!  _ And Zim was amazing at everything he wanted to do, including but not limited to size alterations. 

Zim wasn’t sure if the petty-coat or the dress came first, so he flipped a coin. And when it landed heads-up, meaning the dress came first, Zim felt something churn inside of him, and he flipped it again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until it landed tails-up. 

The petty-coat was custom-sized, just like the dress was, and it fit perfectly. Zim stared at himself in the mirror, and tried to convince himself that his expression was unreadable. 

The dress sat behind him, taunting him. He hadn’t touched it, not even to poke holes in the back for his PAK’s ports— the PAK would punch the holes itself, Zim told himself, and then he would go back and finish the edges so the whole thing wouldn’t unravel. But it wasn’t time to put it on just yet, of course, Zim had to put the shoes on first! He always put his boots on before his uniform, that was just how he got ready! 

The shoes… the shoes were adorned with useless little embellishments; laces and bows and pearls and little dangly bits. Zim slipped them on, thankful that the smallest size fit him perfectly. They gave him a little bit of a height boost, and the disgust over his own emotions that slammed into Zim overpowered the fleeting happiness he felt.

And he knew, he  _ knew  _ there was no proper explanation for putting the cuffs on before the dress, but so be it. The fabric was so thin he could tear it with his bare hands, and yet he felt as if they were truly restraining him. But of course that had nothing to do with the fact that the dress was the last thing left— the headdress being put on before the dress made no logical sense, and try as Zim might, he couldn’t justify it to himself. 

It was time, time to do the one thing he bought this entire ensemble to do, time to put that damn dress on— and it was just a piece of  _ fabric,  _ and he was  _ Zim!  _ And Zim fears nothing, especially not pieces of fabric impulse bought off the internet. 

But it wasn’t  _ really  _ an impulse, was it? He’d paced around the room, reading and re-reading the note to the seller with his measurements, counted the Earth monies he’d had over and over again, double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking that he had enough, that he didn’t need to ruin the day of some bank teller for some more. 

He’d seen the pretty dress and the pretty shoes and all the pretty accessories and he still hit  _ “confirm purchase”  _ and he sat and he waited for it to come, and it’d taken so long, long enough for how pretty the dress was to sear itself in Zim’s mind. 

Irkens had beauty standards, the same as any species, and not just ones based on height. A small face and big eyes with unique colors, especially the rare double-colored eyes, all signified that this Irken was  _ pretty.  _ Coupled with height and antenna styles, but an Irken can be pretty and short, if they were lucky— Zim had once heard of a short Irken, around his height, with the two-toned eyes, dark blue with golden spots, with a small face and big eyes, submissive yet protective, docile yet deadly. 

_ That  _ Irken was pretty. Tallest Red and Purple were pretty— tall and slender, with unique eyes, Red’s so rare that there were only one or two a generation, with long faces to match their long bodies, but not  _ too  _ long so they remained pretty. 

Idols were pretty. They were tall, slender propaganda machines, with gorgeous clothing or crisp, immaculate military uniforms, posing with weapons as large as themselves. Lithe things, always with rare eye colors, the rarest of the rare, gorgeous and head-turning, with a glint in them that signified to all that a meeting with them was a dance with danger. Enticing in the subtlety, masters at stirring up a certain  _ something  _ in Irkens, the excitement of violence and the excitement of experiencing it, enough to drive any Irken to immediately sign up for basic training in order to do right by their favorite TV personality.

Those Irkens were pretty. Zim was small, with boring eyes and a nice face, but however nice his face looked or however big his eyes were, didn’t change the fact that he was short and plain and  _ boring—  _ that other Irken he’d remembered was taller than him, still on the shorter side but not— and Zim hated to acknowledge this—  _ pathetically  _ short. Any pretty qualities he might have were mitigated by how absolutely unassuming he looked; just like any other Irken spat out by the system, the only outstanding quality being his impressive-in-the-wrong-way shortness and his too-loud, scratchy,  _ annoying  _ voice, and his infuriating way of putting emphasis on his words that made others grip their antennae in pain as he pretended not to notice, because what else could he have done?

Zim was destructive, but too overt to ever compare to an idol. He lacked that enticing aura— in fact, the only enticing aura he’d emit was one to entice others to stay far, far away from him.

Idols were pretty. Any Irken idol would be worthy of such a pretty dress like the one Zim had ordered, worthy of donning it to a crowd and worthy of being the one to introduce the concept of  _ fashion for pleasure, embellishments for embellishment’s sake  _ to the masses. 

Zim, and this was something he could never convince himself otherwise, was  _ not  _ pretty. 

He wasn’t  _ ugly,  _ he simply… wasn’t pretty. He was average, unassuming, sticking out in all the worst ways. And what if the dress didn’t fit, anyway? What if, despite his measurements, it was  _ still  _ too big for him, and he looked like a deluded little smeet trying to act like he was a pretty idol, telling the unamused educators that one day he  _ would  _ be an idol, while tripping over the too-big dress, just like he tripped over his too-big pants on his too-big smeet smock, and how his Invader-In-Training uniform hung off of him in a very unprofessional manner, and he’d had to hand sew his alterations in the dead of night, biting his lip and trying not to think about how in the vast stretches of the Empire, there truly was never an Irken as pathetically  _ small  _ as Zim— so small, in fact, that the Empire was not equipped to accommodate him in even the most basic of ways. 

He didn’t even notice he was biting his lip again, the same way he did all those nights ago, the same way he did when the Educator yelled at him for ruining his smeet smock, back when he was still learning to sew, not accepting Zim’s indignant  _ “But it didn’t FIT!”  _ as a proper response. After all, it was hard to notice you were biting your lip when your teeth were as soft as an Irken’s.

And Zim realized, looking in the mirror, that he looked absolutely  _ ridiculous.  _ Perhaps if he were taller, the poof of the petty-coat would compliment his figure more, or if his eyes were that pretty blue-with-yellow-flecks, or even just blue, he’d settle for just blue, then maybe they’d match a little more. Zim could hone his skills as an Invader as much as he wanted, claw to the top rankings in his training platoon a schmillion times over, but it did never, and  _ would  _ never, erase the fact that he was  _ not pretty,  _ and he’d always  _ hated  _ his faulty genes, but really it was just  _ himself  _ he hated, for his rotten luck in the aesthetics department. 

But it had cost two hundred and fifty-four of his precious Earth moneys, and it’s not like they would accept returns on a custom order. 

Biting his lip harder, and keeping his watery eyes wide open so any tears that  _ may or may not  _ be pooling in them wouldn’t spill over, he finally picked up the dress, feeling as if the delicate fabric was burning him just as bad as the filthy, polluted Earth water that left searing welts on him that took hours to heal. With one hand, he reached behind himself and pried his PAK off, it hitting the floor with a dull  _ clunk.  _ Zim’s life-clock appeared in the corner of his vision, and he tried not to focus on how his  _ (tiny, pathetically tiny)  _ frame was shaking. 

He had a time limit now, and he mentally told himself that if he did not put this  _ stupid  _ dress on before his life-clock ran out, that he was a  _ failure.  _ A sniveling little stain on Irk’s glorious Empire, one not deserving of the basic accommodations that he’d been denied until he’d proved himself— his Invader’s uniform was the first article of clothing that’d ever fit him, in his  _ life,  _ and it had been because all Invader’s uniforms are custom-fitted. 

Uniforms were important on Irk, and in the Empire as a whole; they reflected what you  _ did,  _ what you  _ are,  _ what you  _ were worth.  _ Treating one’s uniform with disrespect was a major faux pass— it wasn’t  _ illegal  _ per se, but in the eyes of your peers it might as well have been. To go one’s entire life without one ever fitting was a humiliation so great, it rivaled the size of the Massive itself. The combined elation Zim felt when both passing his final exam and becoming a proper Invader, and finally receiving something that  _ fit,  _ right when he got it, no alterations required, outshone any negative feelings he’d ever felt in his life— nothing could drown it out; not the years of having to painfully cran his neck to see any _ thing  _ or any _ one,  _ not the jeers thrown at him ever since the smeetery all the way through Invader training, and not the stab of the tailor tasked with making his custom-made Invader’s uniform measuring him and, while writing the numbers down, giving his tablet a look of disgust. 

But that elation had long since passed, and the years of subtle humiliation rose again, ready to crush Zim under its heel; its giant, imposing heel, belonging to an endlessly tall leg, stretching so high up that Zim could break his neck trying to see, and even then he’d never catch a glimpse of its impossibly pretty face. 

Seven minutes. Zim was seven minutes to death, with the sole way of escaping it being  _ putting on a dress,  _ and here he was, half-dressed and crying in front of a mirror, because of  _ stupid things that happened a long, long time ago.  _

What a waste of two hundred and fifty-four dollars. Even two dollars spent on trying to make  _ ZIM  _ look pretty would be a waste, as it was a waste to attempt an impossible task. 

But Zim was no failure. He was short, tiny, pathetic, and all-around  _ not pretty.  _ But he made sure, ever since he’d first been made aware of the odds stacked against him, that Zim was no failure. Zim  _ would  _ prevail, despite everything. 

So Zim slipped the dress over his shoulders and closed his eyes as it fell into place, bending down to blindly grab his PAK and slip it back into its sockets, hearing the  _ chk-chk  _ of it locking back into place, coupled with the unmistakable sound of fabric being torn to make way for the thick wires. 

He twirled around, this way and that, keeping his legs right where they were and moving his body, patting the skirt as it fanned out so it would fall nicely on the petty-coat. He stood there for a while, blindly swaying, until he was so dizzy that he was sure he would fall over if he continued. 

Zim almost didn’t want to open his eyes— more accurately, he  _ really really really  _ didn’t want to open his eyes, but he had to. He knew he had to, eventually. The sheer fabric of the dress’s sleeves felt so foreign on his skin; brushing on it lightly, as opposed to the tight Irken clothing he was accustomed to. It felt  _ wrong,  _ like it was too delicate for an Irken, any Irken, especially Zim in particular. Irkens were not delicate and pretty, though some looked it, they were resilient and tough and formidable and impressive and  _ tall,  _ or at least they  _ should  _ be all these things; prettiness was just an extra little add-on. An add-on that Zim did not have, and an add-on that he knew would look ridiculous on him if he tried to replicate it. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know that he would look like an idiot in a too-big dress, the looseness of the sleeves making his spooch twist in anticipation— sure, they  _ looked  _ loose in the pictures, but what if they were  _ too  _ loose? What then? 

It cost two hundred and fifty-four Earth monies, though. It cost so much of his monies and so much of his time, combing through pages and pages of dresses to choose the one he liked the most, meticulously picking all the needed accessories so he could do this  _ correctly,  _ because why bother doing something if you didn’t do it  _ correctly,  _ and it wasn’t  _ correct  _ to stand in front of a mirror without looking at yourself, and it wasn’t  _ correct  _ for Zim to spend his limited Earth money supply on something so frivolous, and it wasn’t  _ correct  _ for Irkens to care about these sorts of things at all, and it wasn’t  _ correct  _ for Zim to care, and it wasn’t  _ correct  _ for Zim to  _ exist.  _

But here he was, existing anyway, and here was the dress, bought anyway, with what little Earth money he had. There was no harm in beholding what he’d created, no harm in seeing the mistake for himself. 

And Zim opened his eyes. 

Custom sizing really was  _ something,  _ perhaps humans were better at it than Irkens, capable of creating something that perfectly hugged one’s figure just from some numbers rather than an in-person model, or even a hologram. Or perhaps Zim, despite his years of sewing, had no idea how a true Tailor’s job is done. 

Zim didn’t know. Zim didn’t  _ care,  _ at the moment.

The dress hugged his small, thin figure beautifully, draping down over the petty-coat and coming to a rest right around his knees, the stars sewn onto the hemline dangling beautifully, swaying whenever he shook. 

And by Irk, Zim shook. 

His pretty new gloves were getting all wet, but Zim didn’t  _ care.  _ Suddenly two hundred and fifty-six Earth monies meant nothing to him, the fact that he was going against what an Irken  _ should be  _ meant nothing to him; all that mattered was that it  _ fit.  _ Against all odds, it  _ fit.  _ It didn’t awkwardly hang off his frame and limply crumple on itself, it didn’t reach past his legs and make him trip, it didn’t swallow him whole and make him look even more tiny than he already was. It  _ fit, _ and it was such a simple thing at the end of the day, that Zim almost didn’t understand why he was so  _ emotional  _ about it, but thoughts swirled in his head of all the times nothing  _ ever  _ fit, and he knew that he could not deny the  _ whys  _ surrounding it. 

He knew he was amazing, he was Zim and Zim was amazing because Zim was destructive and Zim was relentless and Zim was determined and  _ wasn’t that what a good little Irken (emphasis on little) was supposed to be like?  _ Zim was amazing. Zim was mighty. But Zim was not pretty, and Zim knew this. 

It was easy for a pathetically deluded little Irken to convince himself that his destruction was revered, and his determination was coveted. Those were good traits for good Irkens, and the more they had of those traits, the better, according to something masquerading as logic. 

_ (Just as Zim was masquerading as a competent Invader.) _

But it was a smidge harder for the same pathetically deluded little Irken to convince himself that he was, in fact, desirable in a  _ physical  _ sense. That he was the fancy little jewel of the Irken empire, something to be  _ oohed  _ and  _ ahhed  _ at, and put on TV to tell the common folk to, Zim doesn’t know, join the military or something like that— he never really was into the Irken idols. 

It never did work, and every time he’d receive a new uniform that he had to alter to fit him, Zim would sit in the dark of his room and think about how he was  _ not pretty,  _ and how he was so unpretty that the Empire didn’t even plan for the possibility of someone so pathetically  _ small  _ and  _ unpretty  _ being a part of it, and how he was unpretty because he was short, and because he was short he was pathetic, and he was also unpretty because everyone hated his voice, he tried not to pay it any mind but those nights are when he’d remember all the grimaces others would give him, and how the only thing he had going for him was his destructive tendencies, but if Zim really was amazing, wouldn’t someone have noticed by then, so he must not be very amazing, but no, he is, it’s just that nobody noticed yet, but what if he wasn’t, but no, he  _ was,  _ he  _ had to be,  _ because if Zim was not amazing, then Zim was completely and utterly  _ worthless,  _ he’d have  _ nothing, absolutely nothing,  _ no reason to his existence, no point to him being  _ alive;  _ just an ugly little vestige on an otherwise pristine and glorious Empire. 

But perhaps there was a point to this, here, on Earth. 

Zim had looked into the mirror, and for the first time in his life, Zim felt pretty. 

And it was on the terms of a foreign species, on enemy territory, deep underground where only Zim could appreciate it. 

He gingerly put on the headdress, not having forgotten this last, crucial piece to the outfit, and he stared at himself, big fuschia eyes clashing with the golds and blues and whites of his outfit, but still  _ pretty.  _ Even those, were pretty. 

Zim was small, so small, but so was the dress, and the dress was pretty on him. And he was pretty in the dress, they were both pretty, together, and the words  _ pretty  _ and  _ short  _ went together about as well as the words  _ pretty  _ and  _ Zim  _ did, in Zim’s mind. Which  _ would  _ have meant  _ not at all, _ but in this moment, deep underground, they went together, even if just a little. 

Zim was pretty, and Zim was short, and Zim’s eyes were common, but he was pretty despite all that. The green of his skin and the pink of his eyes went well together, and they popped against the dark contrasts of the blues of the outfit. His face was a nice shape, and under the dress, that lithe form was  _ strong,  _ after years of intense military training. That was something to be proud of, in Zim’s opinion— something worth being called pretty. 

It wasn’t on the Empire’s terms, and it wasn’t with the Empire’s clothings, and it wasn’t on the Empire’s soil. 

It was  _ Zim’s.  _ It was Zim’s dress, and Zim’s body, all being observed in Zim’s base.

And Zim looked, and for the first time in his life, felt comfortable looking.

**Author's Note:**

> in case ppl wanna know what zim's outfit looks like....
> 
> [the dress](https://www.lolitawardrobe.com/shimotsuki-sakuya-the-whisper-of-stars-lolita-op-dress_p5543.html)   
>  [the leggings/gloves](https://lolitawardrobe.com/lolita-yidhra-constellation-120d-velvet-tights_p0198.html)   
>  [the cuffs](https://lolitawardrobe.com/cutie-creator-lace-bows-lolita-wristcuffs_p2553.html)   
>  [the shoes](https://lolitawardrobe.com/the-whisper-of-stars-sweet-lolita-shoes_p4058.html)   
>  [the headdress](https://lolitawardrobe.com/shimotsuki-sakuya-the-whisper-of-stars-lolita-headband-with-veil_p5549.html)
> 
> all in navy blue
> 
> [my tumblr](https://irkenheretic.tumblr.com)   
>  [my twitter (please give me followers there im storving)](https://twitter.com/irkenheretic)
> 
> again 4 ppl that dont know me there IS zadr there so heads up
> 
> anyway hope u liked this. feed me comments so i may live another day and perhaps post another fic


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